From my last post, readers may have chalked up my recent absence to the assumption that I’ve rode off happily into the sunset, concluding this account of my life with a “happily ever after” feel. Perhaps the more cynical among you have surmised an ironically tragic fate in the form of a freak camping accident, or a mix-up in the Radiology reports.
But alas, I have spent much of the earlier parts of the week utterly convinced that a man was trying to ruin my life.
Although I have in my possession nearly 900 pages of documentation of this fellow’s lunacy, the long reach of Don Quixote’s broken lance is not to be underestimated.
This fictional foe managed to steal not only the ample chunk of time I’d penciled in for his literary exploits Monday evening, but a hefty portion of Tuesday as well. By nightfall, I saw my life vaporizing into a haze of makeshift armor, lance work, and sword fighting.
As if stealing my time wasn’t enough, he attempted to pick my pocket as well, robbing me of the ability to turn in a feel-good back to school article I’d hoped to put to bed on Tuesday.
On Wednesday, I discovered that I’d read what my professor intended as an entire week’s worth of Quixote material within a 14-hour span. I softened slightly toward Quixote. Perhaps I could begin to view him in the same light as the rest of the unusual regulars that frequent my home, such as my daughter’s hungry friend, who is in my kitchen as I write this, eating a PBJ.
Today in class, I was quizzed on the extent to which I’ve retained data from my visits with DQ. Evidently I’ve been too chummy with Don, smiling and nodding during our visits when I should have assumed a therapist’s role with Mr. Quixote, taking notes on his case.
So, dear readers, don’t be too hasty to picture me heading off into the sunset, unless I’m fleeing an armored stalker on a scrawny horse.